I remember a man from my village who had a phrase for every turn of a game of billiards. When he was winning, he would say: “U mari è ranni, ci su' i pisci.” The sea is big; there are fish in it. When he was losing, his comment changed: “È mortu u ciucciu.” The donkey is dead.
What stayed with me most was this: he spoke in both situations. He did not become talkative only when things were going well, then disappear behind silence when the game took a bad turn. He had words for being ahead and words for losing. I do not know whether he meant to teach anyone anything. Looking back, though, I think those two expressions contain a small lesson about the dignity of showing up without always having to look like a winner.
Today we have many more ways to tell our stories, but I am not sure this has made us more honest. We can show an achievement, a holiday, a romance, a beautifully laid table. We can choose the light, the framing, the moment. And we can leave out anything that would make the scene less perfect. For me, the problem is not that a photograph cannot contain an entire life. It is when we start asking others to believe that our entire life looks like that photograph.
Words for Winning, Words for Losing
I like the fact that this man had more than one phrase. A single phrase, repeated when we win, can become a pose: look how good I am, look how everything works out for me. The second brought in a very simple truth: the same person who had reason to celebrate a moment earlier could soon find himself in difficulty.
There was no need to humiliate himself. A lost game did not have to become a dramatic confession. It was enough to acknowledge, with a rather funny expression, that things were not going as he had hoped. The joke did not fix the score, but it allowed him to stay present without having to hide it.
Perhaps this is the freedom I would like to keep: not needing success in order to go on talking to other people. If I can be among others only when I have something to show off, I am not truly free. I am busy defending a character who has to live up to his reputation every time he appears.
Honesty does not mean telling everything: it means not using what we tell to make people believe something untrue. I do not expect a man to sum up his existence after a game of billiards. I simply notice how natural it was for him to put a name to the things he did not like as well.
The Selection Process That Ends After the First Test
I think, for example, of a competitive selection process with a written test and an oral examination. Someone passes the written test and publishes their score. They have every reason to be pleased: they studied, faced a challenge and achieved something. I see nothing wrong with wanting to share that satisfaction, provided it is clear that this is a stage along the way, not the finish line.
Then comes the oral examination, things go badly, and the story stops. Those who shared in the excitement are left with the favourable news. They do not know whether the selection process is over, whether it has yet to finish, or whether that first result led to a final success. The person has not necessarily told a lie; they may, however, leave an impression in place that they know is incomplete.
If I have invited others to follow a journey, congratulate me and cheer me on, it would seem fair to find, when I feel ready, a few words to bring it to a close: “The written test went well, but the oral did not. I did not make it this time.” I do not have to publish my score, justify myself or open myself up to comments. I can add that I would rather not discuss it further.
Of course, silence alone does not prove vanity or bad faith. We may be disappointed, tired or hurt; we may need time. The point is not to demand an immediate update, but to ask what kind of relationship we want with those listening: do we want to share an experience, or merely collect the admiration it can bring us?
Privacy Is Not a Lie
Here I feel the need to draw a boundary. Wishing for a more honest account does not mean claiming that, once people have opened a window onto their lives, they must leave the whole house wide open. Nobody gains the right to enter our difficulties because we once showed them a moment of joy.
We can stop posting, change our habits and protect something painful. We can say, “It is a difficult time, and I would rather keep it to myself.” We can also choose not to answer someone who asks without sensitivity. Not everything true has to become public, and not everything kept private is a truth concealed for dishonest reasons.
To my mind, the distinction lies in not deliberately encouraging a mistaken conclusion. I may not want to talk about a setback; that is different from continuing to accept congratulations for a success I did not achieve. I may not describe a difficulty; that is different from presenting myself as an example of a life without difficulties, perhaps using that image to judge those who admit to having them.
That is why I would not ask anyone for a complete diary of their defeats. I would ask instead for moderation in victory, respect for reality, and the freedom to say “I do not want to discuss it” without replacing silence with a fiction. Discretion protects something that belongs to us. Pretence tries to control what others are supposed to think of us.
Love Is Not a Public Bulletin
This care seems even more necessary when the story involves a couple. A profile may be full of happy photographs with one person and, after a while, introduce a new relationship without having said anything about the previous one ending. To someone watching, it can look like a succession of wonderful beginnings, with no separations, suffering or difficult transitions.
But we also need to be careful about the conclusions drawn by those looking on. A photograph with someone we do not recognise does not, by itself, prove a change of partner. And even when a relationship really has ended, we do not know what happened, who suffered or what reasons there may be for silence. That empty space does not give us permission to fill it with gossip.
Besides, a love story does not contain only our own life. It contains another person's life and sometimes those of children. Describing a separation may expose someone who did not choose to have their story told. No demand for consistency on social media comes before that respect. I would never want to turn honesty into an obligation to explain the reasons for a breakup to the public.
My question, then, is a different one: why do we feel the need to make every beginning public, if the painful transitions later deserve protection? Perhaps it would be wiser to keep more of what we live through private from the start. Not because we are ashamed of love, but because we should not hand it to an audience that might mistake our shared happiness for a subscription to our intimacy.
Who Are We Sharing Our Stories With?
I still feel more comfortable with sharing within a smaller circle, among people with whom there is a relationship. A friend may understand what an achievement means, remember the effort that came before it, and grasp even a sentence left unfinished. They do not need every moment to be extraordinary in order to go on caring about us.
I do not think sharing something publicly is always wrong. We can share ideas, useful experiences, interests and memories without putting every corner of our existence on display. I am doing that myself through these pages. For me, the question is which part deserves to reach beyond our circle and which part loses something when it is offered indiscriminately to everyone.
Saying “I only show it to friends” is already a choice about boundaries, but I would like the word friends to mean more than a list of contacts. And a smaller audience does not automatically make everything suitable to share: a confidence from my child, a vulnerable moment for my partner, an embarrassing image of someone else do not become mine simply because I can publish them.
Having an audience is not the same as having someone beside you. We may receive many congratulations and still not know whom to call when we are afraid. I would not want to put all my energy into looking good to people far away while neglecting those in whose presence I could allow myself to struggle. The first group knows what I show; the second can help me carry what I live through.
The Cost of Always Looking Like a Winner
A story made up entirely of successes can become exhausting even for the person creating it. If I always present myself as confident, capable, wanted and happy, every difficulty risks becoming not just a problem to face, but a contradiction of the person I have promised to be. Disappointment then comes with the added effort of keeping it out of sight.
And those watching may make the opposite mistake: comparing their entire day with a few selected moments from someone else's. They know their own arguments, doubts, bills and failed examinations. All they see of the other person's life is a celebratory toast. From that comparison can come an unfair conclusion: everyone knows how to live, except me.
I am not proposing that we correct this distortion by putting pain on display. Vulnerability, too, can become a performance if it is prepared solely to gain attention. I would prefer a simpler relationship with the truth: celebrating without declaring ourselves invincible, keeping quiet without inventing, acknowledging a limit when it helps, and seeking support without having to turn it into content.
This is where I return to that man and his dead donkey. The game was going badly, and he remained someone able to stay at the table and speak. He did not have to erase what had happened in order to carry on being there. Perhaps the real alternative to showing off is not to share more misfortunes. It is to stop thinking that misfortune, disappointment or defeat makes us less worthy of company.
What I Would Like to Leave My Children
My children, I would like all three of you to enjoy your achievements without becoming prisoners of the image of someone who always succeeds. Celebrate an examination, a job offer, a project brought to completion. Do not be afraid of joy. But remember that your worth does not disappear when news arrives that you do not feel like sharing.
I am not asking you to tell the world about your difficulties. On the contrary, I hope you learn to choose whom to trust with them. Protect delicate matters and the people involved; learn to distinguish closeness from curiosity. There are times when a few words spoken to the right person are worth more than an explanation offered to hundreds of strangers.
If you ask others to accompany you on a journey, try to be honest with them when it changes direction too. You do not need to expose every detail: sometimes it is enough to say that things did not turn out as you hoped. And if you are not ready, take your time. But do not go on wearing a medal you know you have not earned simply because nobody has yet asked how it ended.
I would also like you to be friends around whom others do not have to pretend. Do not look for their defeats to bring them down, do not demand explanations, and do not mistake a confidence for something to pass on. If people find a willing ear only when they bring good news, they may learn to hide everything else. Make sure they do not need to do that beside you.
The sea may be big, and sometimes the donkey may be dead: neither makes us any less ourselves. That is what I would like to leave you. The freedom to rejoice without putting on an act and to lose without disappearing. Not a life that must be shown to everyone, but a life that does not need to be falsified to feel worth living.
Papy